Captivity
by Radioheaded
Summary: Accompaniment to 'Entrapment.' Told from Eric's perspective. Eric is sent to kill someone, but is interrupted by an...interesting woman. Set before vampires come out of the coffin.
1. Chapter 1

The fact that the human Aaron Gray has no idea what's about to befall him almost takes the excitement out of the game.

Almost.

The thought of taking him, pushing him against a wall and showing him what I am before burying my teeth in his neck, finding the pulsing carotid artery there, sweet with the thick stream that is his blood, his life, quells my boredom. Every time I imagine the smell of his fear, how the whites of his eyes will swallow the iris, of the screams that will try desperately to tear their way out of his throat, my teeth lengthen, ache with the need to bathe themselves in his blood. I take in air I don't need to breathe and let it out with an almost-silent hiss.

Though the joy of a kill is running through me, an excitement I haven't felt in hundreds of years, but I collect myself. I'm in a public place, which I'm comfortable enough in, but it is an extra risk, one that threatens exposure and my livelihood. What complicates matters is the fact that I'm not alone in my hunt for Mr. Gray. His appetite for blood, a thirst that rivals some of my own kind, and it's finally caught the attention of the police. They'll probably send some pretty thing to face off with this man, to lure him into attacking; the equivalent of rolling up a snowball, placing it on a fire and hoping it doesn't melt. But she won't have to worry, this lamb sent to slaughter, because I have no plans to let Gray go anywhere near jail.

A mistake made by one of my kind, being intruded upon while feeding, had made Gray dangerous, powerful and knowledgeable about vampires. And humans aren't good with power. Or secrets. He's been researching us, becoming a slow but sure threat. He finally crossed the line two weeks ago, when he managed to capture a newly-turned vampire with silver bindings, who he then tortured for information. He'd discovered something, something that could wipe us all out: the power of our blood. It heals humans, makes them stronger, faster and more beautiful, and is also addictive, a drug to them. He'd drained her, the newborn, cut her blood with aspirin, called it 'red coke,' and sold it.

His life is now forfeit, and I've been chosen to end it for him. But now that the police are close, I have to act fast, have to get him tonight, before his need to kill delivers the evidence of our existence into police hands. As I sit here, in a restaurant, waiting for Gray and his 'date,' my associate is glamouring the super of his building, disposing of the vampire blood, cleaning it so no trace is left.

I wait here, surrounded by humans, the women of whom glance my way subtly, the hungry expressions on their faces spelling out exactly what they think of me. I smirk, bored with the attention, annoyed with the pathetic whisperings and small talk that surround me. I try not to listen, but I'm not impervious to the voices that interrupt my own thoughts. Gossip, frivolity, the pitiable lives of those around me fill the air, rushing at the speed of life while I sit like stone, salivating over the violence to come.

My self-induced trance is broken when a woman in a black dress arrives. She gives herself away as a cop quite quickly, though I doubt any mortal would think to question her motives. First, her stance is not that of a woman arriving to a date; she should be nervous, happy, electrified with the _anticipation_ of meeting a would-be lover. But her back is straight, and her face is set, neither animated nor eager. My guess is cemented when she nods at the waiter, another couple at the back of the room, and a table of three men dressed in business attire. Her acknowledegments are micro expressions, flashing across her face for less than a second, but I catch them like a ball snatched from mid air.

She sits at a table across from mine, smoothing the dress across her legs, twitching her shoulders once before settling back into the seat. Her skin, all that I can see, is slightly tan, a memory of the summer that clings stubbornly, refusing to leave, though it is November. Her long, red-brown hair settles on this skin nicely, sliding over her shoulders and back in smooth ripples. My gaze settles there, just above where her collarbone juts out, moving up and down in the rhythmic pattern of her breath.

She turns, feeling my gaze, and stares at me for a moment before frowning and turning away again. I'm surprised; most people, most women, appreciate my eyes lingering on their faces and bodies, or they pretend to be disinterested so I'll be more attracted to them, to the chase. This one finds me uninviting, or at least, had no interest in my attention.

Her features, I can tell, even when twisted into a disapproving frown, aren't beautiful, exactly. Her bottom lip is a little too big, but her top lip curves sweetly, enhanced by a deep cupid's bow, similar to my own. Her nose is small, curved at the end. Her eyes, though, are what catch my attention. They're large, slightly wide-set and deep, but the color holds me. The inner iris is an ice blue with odd dots of color; white, grey, green, gold, surrounded by a navy-blue ring that makes the iris jump out against the white. She emphasized this with eyeliner and mascara; if she isn't beautiful, she's certainly striking, the sort you want to examine closely to figure out _why_, exactly, you're so interested.

I'm trying to do just that when Gray arrives. I pinpoint my interest to her instant dismissal, her apathy toward me. She stands, greets him with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Her shoulders tense when he lays his hand there, grasps at the skin lightly to give her a kiss on the cheek. He tells her she looks beautiful. The way the black fabric of her dress flows over her tall, lithe frame, I'm not disinclined to agree. She thanks him and they sit, begin to dissolve into idle chatter about where they're from, where they went to school, what they do; I roll my eyes internally. Humans. I understand that I used to be one: weak, fragile, a heartbeat away from death, but really? When will they stop playing these games? Why go out, get to know one another by spewing pleasantries when what they really want is to tear each other's clothes off, join together in ecstasy?

My guest arrives as a waiter approaches Gray's table. Adam is 400 years old, much younger than I, but we understand each other. He tells me the apartment is taken care of, spotless. I thank him, and turn my attention back to the woman, who, by her gaze, knows the waiter. They order, and as soon as the waiter turns around, his smile falls off, lips pulling back into a grimace.

Cop.

Their wine arrives and she takes a sip, closes her eyes as it flows down her throat. I watch the veins in her neck as she swallows and lick my lips reflexively. I want to taste her. She opens her eyes, grins at Gray and I see that her mouth is perfect when she smiles, curved red against the tan of her skin.

Gray asks her what she's writing about; apparently, she's posing as a writer. She blushes, blood running just beneath the skin of her face; I want to touch her cheek, run my fingers over the protective layer that keeps her blood hidden. She offers a description I don't catch; I'm salivating over her blood.

"Something catch your attention?" Adam asks, knowingly. I look at him, a smile playing at his mouth, lighting up his dark eyes.

"She's interesting to watch," I reply, and Adam chuckles. He understands life's lack of surprises after a certain age.

The sound of her heart doubling its pace calls me back to her; anger practically leaps off her skin in waves of heat that makes my own hair stand up. My skin is electric, reading off of hers.

"Wow," Adam whispers, his voice too low for humans to hear. "That's the cop?"

"Seems so," I say. She's smiling again, a hunter's smile that says she's got Gray right where she wants him. But then, she looks toward me again; I raise an eyebrow, wanting to see her reaction to a challenge. She tilts her head, stares into my eyes, hard, the light hitting them so they almost glow, the refraction of the cobalt blue ring jumping out at me. She squints those eyes, then turns back to her date, features neutral once more.

They eat together, and she entices him sensually, eating slowly, calling attention to her lips, her hair, speaking with her hands. When they finish, leans in toward him.

"I'll be right back," she says, and stands up. Gray does as well, then keeps his gaze on the table. I stare at her straight-shouldered, retreating back as she walks smoothly to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Gray leans on the table with an elbow. His face is slightly flushed, and he tenses and relaxes his hand on the table. He's excited, wound tight with energy. His gingers are looking forward to wrapping themselves around the woman's neck. Watching this, my lips pull back instinctively, and Adam puts a hand on my arm.

"Don't," he says, his voice deep with warning. "Do not ruin this. Just wait a little longer." I clamp my mouth shut, close my eyes for a moment and allow a shudder of pleasure to run through my body, the thoughts of what is to come.

"No man of honor kills an innocent woman," I say, the words stiff as planks of steel.

"Different times," Adam says simply, removing his fingers and sitting back in his chair.

Gray signals a different waiter, not the cop, and asks for dessert, and the check. My moment is nearing. The woman comes back from the bathroom, eyes on Gray for the duration of her walk. He smiles up at her as she sits, and tells her he's ordered dessert. He plays coy when she asks what it is, refusing to say until it's come, which is a moment later. Strawberries and cream.

He picks a piece of fruit up, dips it through the thick, white topping and places it delicately in her mouth. She takes it, and licks the tip of his thumb before letting go. Her eyes harden as she does this, but his breathing falters while his heart begins to race.

"Do you want to see a movie?" he asks.

"If I can pick it," she smiles. She knows she's got him. He reaches across the table, strokes her hand lightly with a finger; she turns the hand over and he traces her lifeline.

"Be right back," he says, standing up to pay the check. He turns back. "Want to finish dessert, then meet me out front? I'll pull the car up." She nods her agreement, then places another strawberry on her tongue, chewing slowly.

"It's time," Adam says, and I nod. I stand and head toward the men's bathroom, but instead leave through the back door and cut across the alleyway on the side of the restaurant towards the front. The night air is cool on my skin, and the scents carried by it awaken my hunger. I'm alive with the hunt, with the satisfaction that Gray's blood will bring me. I hear his footfalls a few seconds later. I step out from the darkness of the alley, meet his gaze and tell him, the seductive electricity of the glamour coating my words thick like honey, to come here. He does, his eyes wide, hypnotized. I reach out to him, lift him off his feet, my hands on his expensive collar. Without hesitation, my teeth lengthen and I am a true predator; a second later, his thin skin snaps under the pressure of my fangs and I drink deeply, quickly. His blood boils, red hot in my mouth, down my throat and into my body, igniting excitement, frenzy, everywhere.

I don't notice the woman coming toward me, gun drawn. I do notice when she puts four bullets into my chest; the pain is sharp, encompasses my thoughts for a fiery moment. I release Gray, who lets out a death rattle before shuddering quietly on the ground. Blood dribbles down my chin and I pull my lips back into a snarl. The woman stares at me without wavering, though she should be afraid, should be begging for her life.

Either way, I won't be the one taking it.

"You never saw this," I say, laying the glamour into the words. "You're going to get back in your car and forget you were going to see a movie with him."

She looks at me like I've grown a second head, sort of the reaction I thought being a vampire would get.

"What are you trying to pull?" Her words are fierce, triumphant.

My fangs retract in surprise. My glamour isn't working; she isn't getting that sleepy smile across her face, isn't backing away, content with her new reality.

"Interesting," I say, and lick my lips for the blood that's still there. "Very interesting."

She tells me all that's interesting is how I'm going to survive in jail, since I did just screw up a police investigation. I laugh. No human will ever know I've even been here.

Grey gurgles below me, exhaling for the last time. "I'm not going anywhere, and, in fact, you're coming with me." I pick Gray's body up, moving too fast for the woman to see, and then rush at her.

"Like hell I--" She gets out, before I tap her lightly on the head, forcing consciousness from her. I pull her over my shoulder, pick up her purse, which had fallen from her hand, and walk across the street quickly so that anyone looking would see a shadowy blur; by the time they rubbed their eyes and looked again, I would be gone.

My car waited, idling on the side of the road. I'd have to remember to thank Adam. I opened the trunk, dumped Gray in, then placed the woman carefully into the front seat.

With my task done, and the entertaining woman in my custody, I begin the drive home.


	2. Chapter 2

The night air is refreshing, cold, perfumed with the heavy, crisp smell of autumn, the sweet scent of decay. The woman is still unconscious in the front seat; I must have hit her harder than I thought, but I smell no blood, so I expect she'll be fine. Her hair is swept back over her face in the wind so the scent of her shampoo and perfume washes over me. That, mixed with the ever-present smell of her blood, distracts me, which in turn aggravates me. I am not one to be distracted by anything, especially not a human woman, even one who proves to be slightly more interesting than the rest of the horde.

But the ignited spark of interest burns like an ember, brings alive a part of me I didn't know existed anymore. She's dangerous in her own way, a woman with something to prove to be considered equal to the men she works with.

The thought reminds me that is a police officer and is probably still armed, if not wired. I need to eliminate her connection to the outside world, need to remove any threat she can use to try to fight me with. Because now that she's seen me, she can't go back. She is mine.

I pull the car over to the side of the highway after driving beyond the reach of the City lights. I inspect her purse first, find an ID that says Elaine Perry, probably fake, a cell phone, and a secret compartment carrying a second phone. I crush both phones quickly, take the sim cards out and toss them into grass that looks black under the moonlight. I keep her wallet, but return the money to the purse. I tip her seat back so she's lying down before running my hands lightly over her body. First I find a wire, taped between her breasts. I remove it and pull it apart, enjoying the electric sizzle it emits, a death moan. My hands move lower, tracing over each thigh, and I feel a band that wraps around her left leg. I reach under her skirt, her skin smooth under my hand as I trace my way up, looking for the weapon concealed on her thigh. I find it, the metal hard and cool, and unsnap the holster, drawing the weapon up and out quickly before smoothing her skirt back in place.

I wonder how long it will take before she gives in to me, before she decides fighting is useless, how long it will be before I kiss her, taste her, share her body like it is my own. The thoughts excite me, as sex, ever reliable, always does, and I pull back onto the freeway, driving far faster than the speed limit.

***

I pull into the driveway of my secluded home in northern Massachusetts a few hours later. The house is quite big, a simple blue-green color, set back from the main roads for privacy. I stare at it for a moment before getting out of the car. I leave Gray in the trunk to take care of tomorrow, and lift the woman into my arms, holding her like a man carrying his bride over their new threshold. She's light, and I'm strong, so the quick walk to the front door is not cumbersome. The lights are on, illuminating the foyer, and I walk up the stairs quickly, putting the woman down on the bed in the spare room and locking it before heading back downstairs.

"Who was that?" A voice calls from behind me; my maid, Mary. I turn and give her a stern look.

"Collateral damage," I tell her simply, my tone of voice warning her not to ask any more questions.

"Alright," she says, stretching the word so I'm sure to hear the disapproval in her voice.

"You'll need to pick up more groceries in the morning to feed her. She'll be here for awhile."

"Mm." I ignore her lack of a reply. She leaves the room, tells me she's going to bed. But it's still early for me, and I want the woman to wake up. I want to talk to her, want to make sense of her.

I go to my own bedroom, up the stairs across from the woman, and change out of my clothes into a casual shirt and jeans; the smell of blood clinging to my dress shirt makes me want to feed again.

She's still unconscious when I let myself back into the room. She hasn't moved from where I put her. Her arms and legs are splayed and her hair fans out on the bed, contrasting with the red comforter. Her lashes, black as night, stand out against her skin in a clean curve, one that moves slightly as her eyes travel back and forth under their lids. She's dreaming.

I sit on the bed, my back to her, listening to the rhythm of her deep breaths. I'm about to shake her awake when I smell fear and adrenaline rush into her bloodstream. She doesn't move, though, and so I tell her to sit up. She doesn't, instead continues to play possum, though her heart pounds louder, like a hammer hitting a nail.

"I won't say it again," I mutter, knowing full well she can hear me. "Adrenaline isn't released when you're unconscious."

She knows she's been found out. With reflexes that are relatively good, for a human, she pushes herself up,, steadies her back on the headboard, and gropes around her legs for the gun I've taken. I let her know that her bullets aren't fatal, but annoying, and turn to look at her. Her face is drawn, eyebrows knit together, mouth a thin gash against her face. She's scared, but defiant, ready to put up a fight.

"What do you want from me?" she asks, her hard voice undermined by a slight tremor of fear that coils around her words. I'm tell her I'm after her memory, and see that she's deteriorating, that the fear and panic she is frantically fighting are beginning to win, pushing her rational mind out of the way. I take her leg in my hand, enjoying the warmth that my skin absorbs greedily, and pull her so she's in front of me. She shakes visibly and her eyes widen when I take her heart-shaped face in my hands and tell her to collect herself, to look into my eyes, to breathe and stay with me because she has nowhere to go. She can't fight me, and the house is secure. She tries to pull away, but my grip is iron, my fingers strong, intertwined in her thick, now rumpled, hair I tell her I don't want to kill her because she discovered what I am, and when the words escape my lips and become real, I know that they're true. I don't want to kill her.

She asks me what I mean, what she thinks I saw. I think she's bluffing, but I can't afford to let her go. And I don't want to, not when she's proven herself to be immune to my glamour. I tell her she'll remember, that I couldn't rid her of it, and her face, after a moment, goes slack with realization.

"You're a vampire." The words are flat, a dull, and her eyes glaze over, until she comes back to herself, clamps a hand over her mouth and eyes me with a strange look in her eyes; not disgust, or fear, really, but something like contempt. I relax my grip on her and she slides away from me, backs her way across the room, slamming her back into the bureau. She's losing herself again, regressing into prey and I feel my own excitement build, so I cross the room, quickly, press my arms into the bureau on either side of her so she's trapped. I breathe in the scent of her, wild under me, while she tries to convince me to let her go because she's a cop, she's wired, her team will know where she is.

I smile, pull out the pieces of her recording device and watch as fury and distress flash across her face. Her eyes roam around the room, looking for a way out, or something to fight me with. She's coiled like a spring, ready to bite, scratch, tear her way out of here, but all she'll do is hurt herself. I go back to the bed and she follows, her steps stiff and hesitant, like she's about to walk off a plank.

"And when do you plan on letting me leave?" She asks as she sits, across the bed, from me. When I tell her I have no real plans on doing so, her eyes water, but she grits her teeth, keeps the tears from spilling. Most would have broken down by now, but she refuses to do so, refuses me the satisfaction. I wouldn't find it in her tears, anyway. She bites back the emotion growing in her eyes a little too hard, though, because her teeth sink into her tongue, releasing blood that is intoxicating when mixed with her fear and agitation. She's saying something, something acidic and proud, but I'm already bent forward, breathing in the smell of her saliva and blood. I interrupt whatever she's saying when I press my mouth on hers. I ask permission with my tongue, try to massage hers with mine and lap at the blood there, but she draws back like she's been hit.

"You want this?" her words are dark. She spits on the floor, coating a dime-sized area in watered-down blood. I rise without saying anything, go into the bathroom and retrieve a towel, which I toss onto the floor. I'm not going to get anything out of her tonight.

"You're stubborn," I say without looking at her. She's breathing in short, shallow bursts. She's afraid. "But, so am I. My maid will come in the morning. Don't try anything." With that, I leave, locking the door behind me. I hear her scramble off the bed, press her ear to the door. I tap sharply on the spot against which she strains to listen, to see how secure the door is. A second later, she falls back and I walk away, grinning.

***

When I rise the next night, there's a tinge of excitement at the back of my mind and for a moment I don't know why, before remembering the woman I hold captive. Our time together yesterday did nothing but demonstrate that she hates me, can barely stand to be near me. The more I think of the fury she aims at me, the more I want to have her, to know her. To solve her. She's like a wild animal that's been caged, furious at the bars that surround her and her captor.

I run a brush through my hair and walk down the hall. Mary intercepts me before I get to the guest room.

"You sure picked a good one," she says, putting a hand on her khaki-clad hip. Mary is a no-nonsense woman, blunt but intelligent. I'd grown to like her over the years, and she didn't care what I was, the way I paid her.

"She's as willful as you," she continued. "And she hasn't touched any of the food I've given her."

"I'll take care of her, Mary," I say, waving my hand at her. A dismissal. She purses her lips at me, but walks away. I let myself in the room and hear the shower. Steam, thick with the smell of shampoo pours into the room, moistens my skin. I lean back on the door and see her naked body against my own as water pours over us both. I capture her mouth with mine and she reciprocates willingly, pressing herself against me so I can't tell where she ends and I begin, though the wild heart I hear can only be hers.

My fantasy is broken when I hear the water stop. She appears through the doorway, water still dripping off her wet hair down her chest in rivulets. I want to follow them, with my tongue. Instead, I say hello. She stares at me, unsure of what to say, so I ask her why she didn't eat the food I had brought for her.

She says something about being a vegetarian, telling me haughtily that she doesn't kill to eat. Humans. Always so ready to judge what they don't know. But it doesn't matter; the real reason she won't accept my hospitality is because she thinks it would be giving in. She will not make herself comfortable, will not partake in anything I give her because she's too proud.

"Come here," I say, not sure exactly why I want her closer, but needing it just the same. She refuses, squares her stance, so I move in front of her, too quickly for her to see. She flinches, unnerved at my ability and takes a step back.

"What's your name?" I ask, wanting to know who she really is.

"You've got my ID," she says, and I tell her that, yes, I have a fake ID to a persona that doesn't actually exist. I want to know _her._

She takes a step forward, angry, asks me how I know she isn't the person her ID said, how I knew the date with Gray was a set up.

"I don't know," I say, rolling my eyes at her games. "Could it have been the fact that anger was rolling off you in waves? Not that Gray noticed. "

"And what did you want with him?" She's close to me now, very close. If I lean forward, we would kiss again. Instead, I change the subject.

"What's your name?"

"Elise Hayes." She crosses her arms, a petulant child furious at having been found out.

"Yours?" She stares directly into my eyes, daring me to be the first to look away.

"Eric Northman." It's true enough. I mock normal pleasantries, tell Elise it's nice to meet her. She turns her back to me, mutters that she can't say the same, and disappears into the bathroom again. She returns, mopping at her hair and chest with a towel.

"I'm all wet," she says, self-consciously, and I can't help but take in her figure where the dress is stuck to the skin. I try to glamour her again, tell her to come here, come closer, but she slides past me, sits on the bed calmly for a moment before erupting into screams. Her face flushes while her hands ball into angry fists at her sides.

"You can't do this!" her voice is loud, commanding. "You can't keep me here like this! This is the twenty-first century! People don't get away with things like this!"

I take in her anger, her desperation and tell her, simply, that in my life, I come first. What she saw threatens me, threatens my race.

"You should be glad," I say, anger creeping into my voice over her insolence, "that I'm keeping you, not killing you." I glare at her, feel my teeth elongate and wait for her to quake, to surrender into her fear, as most do when I become angry. But she's defiant.

"You can't have me," she says, looking me square in the eye. "In fact, I'd rather you kill me."

Her words spur movement in me, and I take her, support her back, place a hand under her neck, and then trace my lips over the artery there.

"Oh, really?" I ask, taking in the scent and feel of her wet hair. I lick her pulse once, then sink my teeth in. She gasps, and I lose myself in the taste of her blood.


	3. Chapter 3

When I inhale her scent, panic and anger and pride, pull my lips back and allow my teeth to trace the skin of her neck before breaking through, pulling her life away by the mouthful, I know what I'm doing is wrong. I'm reneging on a promise I made to Elise, to a woman I have placed in a cell, reducing her to an exhibit at a zoo; but I can't help myself. She needs to know who-- and what I am. I'm over a thousand years old, have seen history firsthand, watched human joy and pain, desperation and contentment. I tell myself I'm doing her a favor by keeping her alive. Many of my peers would not be above killing her for what she knows. She has to learn that her dignity is of no consequence here, with me, and she'll have to come around sometime.

So when I take her essence into me, letting it fill my mouth, pour down my throat in heavy streams, and she starts to relax into the motion, I think she's beginning to let down her guard, to enjoy to the sensations of my feeding from her. Her fingers twitch, though, quick, jerking movements that flow up her arms and chest until her body bucks underneath me, her back arching into positions that gymnasts only dream of. A gargling noise starts in her throat and gets louder until she's moaning, loud, painful screams that raise the hair on my arms. She's fighting me, fighting the lull of my bite, the pleasure I try to give her. I can't take her screams of pain, though. They take away any satisfaction I feel while drinking. I withdraw from her neck and her body relaxes immediately, tense muscles collapsing in my hands. A thin sheen of sweat covers her forehead; her eyes flutter, though she's still awake. I put her down on the bed, angry that she's won, impressed that she fought so hard, and oddly concerned with the amount of pain I put her through. She doesn't move, arms and legs splayed, decency the last thing on her mind.

The hand that had supported her neck is covered in blood, warm, sticky with her cells. I lick them, savoring the taste. When my hand is clean I step toward the bed, stand over her stationary body. Blood trickles down her neck and I want it, so I kneel on the fabric, one knee in the space between her legs, placing my weight on my hands and slide my tongue over the wounds until they're just two small, clean holes. Her ear is inches away, so I get close, whisper so she can feel my cool breath on her neck. I ask her if she's enjoying herself.

Her voice is weak but defiant; I didn't take much blood, so she must be affected by the pain. When she replies, she asks me what I mean. What infuriates me, though, is that though she can barely whisper, she shows no sign of fear, just a strange tranquility; my actions should have terrified.

So I taunt her.

"This weakness," I say, lifting her wrist, releasing it so it crumples like a doll's limb by her side. I tell her that _this_ is what death feels like, this weakness, this feeling of slipping away. "Do you want it?" I ask, my words a hiss as I look into her heavy-lidded eyes.

"How would you know what death is like?" She asks, her words coming out as a sigh. "You only give it." Her voice gets stronger. "You evaded it, mock it now, and missed life's biggest lesson."

I smile, show her my teeth, place a hand under her shoulder and lift her with a finger before laying her back down. She's right, I did come back, changed, though what I am hardly seems to bother her.

"Want to learn my lesson for me?" I say around my elongated teeth. She doesn't answer, lifts her hand instead, moves it like it's made of stone, clumsy, slow, until her fingers brush the skin of my cheek, tracing back and forth across my jaw. Her fingers move back and forth across the skin there, and her eyes close, hiding the fierce blue behind pale lids and black lashes.

Her fingers continue their path, reaching my lips, igniting the cells under her touch, especially when she traces the top lip, the soft dip under my nose. I open my mouth, take her fingers between them and suck lightly until her hand jumps, shudders into one of my fangs. Her skin breaks easily and the cut fills with blood that flows freely. I draw it out, closing the space around her digits, close my eyes and take her by the wrist to steady the limb.

"You're just a predator," she murmurs. I open my eyes and listen as she tells me why she's not afraid of me: I offer death or captivity. "I know the options, though since I'm on my back, barely able to move, I'd say you broke your promise not to hurt me."

I release her hand from my mouth; it falls on the bed, fingers splayed.

"If you didn't fight it," I begin, but her tremulous murmurings interrupt me.

"All I have is my will. Don't you see?" Her eyes widen, but she's not pleading. She's telling.

"You'll drive yourself insane, then." She asks me why she should get Stockholm syndrome when I'm the one that's taking her life away.

"I'm not asking you to like me." Her lip curls at my words. "I don't care if you do or don't, but I am letting you live. Don't forget that."

She snorts, the harsh sounds puncturing the quiet of the air around us. "I'm alive, but without a life to speak of." She coughs once, twice, and it rattles in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs.

"Why did you take me?"

I give her reasons, reasons that are valid, that make sense, so they should be true. But they're not, and I'm not sure why. She knows about vampires, I tell her. She jeopardizes everything .

"Do you think I'm stupid?" She's incredulous, and I hold my tongue, choosing not to answer the question. Most humans are stupid, tied up with the trivialities of their daily lives, not bothering to look outside themselves. Elise is not savvy to be fighting me so strongly, but she is intelligent. I give her that, raise an eyebrow as she continues on her rant, telling me that she's smart enough not to mention things that go bump in the night to anyone, especially not other cops.

"By telling me, by letting me see what you are, then reminding me of it, by giving me your name and asking for mine, you ensured my captivity. I'm here because you're lonely, because you want someone to amuse you. But I'm not going to bend to you--I never will."

I tell her it's a nice theory, but the slight of her insight touches something inside me, makes me defensive so I want to attack, a feeling that creeps into my voice

I move my face up until I'm inches away from hers, bathing in the feverish warmth that emanates from her weakened body. I want to wrap myself around her, absorb her warmth until it's mine. My hair falls out from behind my ear, hiding both of our faces from outside view. The contrast of my light hair is day to the dark brown night of hers; I'm sure our skin has the same effect. I stare into her eyes, look at her like she's my last meal; I'm a predator overtaking its prey, trying to scare it out of its wits before taking that last, fatal bite. But I get no reaction, just a brick wall stare, colored cobalt blue. She's analyzing every second of this exchange.

"That night you said I was interesting," she says. "What did you mean?"

"You're smart enough," I purr, staring into those infuriating eyes. I think of her blood, let my teeth lengthen again. She brings out the hunter in me, makes my hackles rise to the point where I just want to attack. I speak easily around the teeth, though showing her that they're a natural part of me, that I'm not human; I show her the animal I am, because she has to know. My blonde hair, my blue eyes are deceitful, but I can't let her forget what she's dealing with. "Figure it out."

Her mouth moves, but no words come out, at first. Then she clears her through, a wet, thick sound that brings back vague, shrouded memories of the winters experienced in my youth. When she does find the ability to speak, her words are razor sharp, low, accurate in a way that is uncommon for someone so young. There has to be a reason, a need for her to gauge the intentions, the emotions of others so quickly, so instinctually. It's made her a good cop, but something tells me she had this ability before she got her job.

She goes on, telling me, accurately, that I'm old, bored with life.

"You saw something new," she says, her pink tongue peeking out to slide over her dry lips. She swallows under me, her thirst as strong as my own. I want her, though I have no need to feed. I just want to consume her.

"You think you're God, so you took what you wanted."

"Are you done?" I find myself millimeters away from her lips. My legs are intertwined with hers, and the rest of her is pressed against me so her heart hammers like it's in my chest. The echo ignites a mechanical memory in my body; I find her heart calming.

She nods, a motion so weak a human would have found it hard to catch. I smile, and her eyes widen slightly, though she recovers quickly, cracks a joke about being a captive audience. She jokes in the face of danger. I can appreciate that, and the polarity of enjoying her personality whilst taking her down a notch troubles me slightly. I brush it off, though.

"You're what, all of 28?" I ask. She doesn't answer. I let my body weight sink into her slightly, grind my hips into hers. She stays motionless under me. I smile.

"And you're all about control. Even your looks—that's how you get to other people, especially this man you were trying to catch. And you hate it, because it goes against the fact that you're smart, and educated, and proud of it. And you like the hunt, just as much as I do—more, even. You hated that man, and the feeling rolled off your body, but so did excitement. You _loved_ luring him in with your wiles, and you relished leading him into a trap. You're just like me, really."

My words hit the air between us, and the silence presses in for a moment, a deafening _lack_. Time suspends itself so she and I are staring at one another in an unbroken moment that lasts forever and is over before she can take a breath.

Then her eyes shut, her mouth stretches out in a false grin. Without making a noise, tears begin to fall, gliding off her lashes like bodies down a slide. She keeps her eyes shut, refusing to look up at me while she weeps. The smell of the wet salt coating her skin stirs something deep within me and I trace the tracks the tears have made with my tongue, their taste sliding into my mouth like drops of rain. I lick toward the corners, consuming her pain, but she just cries harder, her muscles tensing under me, like a spring, coiling tight before the inevitable release. I roll off of her, pick her up so she presses against my chest, wetting my t-shirt. She doesn't push away, instead pulls her knees up, hooks her arms around me; mine fine their way to her hair, then her back, rubbing in a compassionate way that's unfamiliar to me. I feel clumsy, like my hands are too big for her narrow back. I'm in uncharted territory, and I don't like it.

"Shhh," I whisper, and I murmur that she'll be alright, that she's ok, slipping back into Swedish without realizing. We stay like that, me comforting her, the one I'm inflicting pain onto, until her tears stop and she starts to breathe slowly, deeply against me. She's curled into me, fits with me like a puzzle piece.

"I can't glamour you," I find myself saying into her damp-from-crying hair. I let it go so easily, a secret no human should ever know. And then I went on to explain it to her.

"Glamour?" She slurs. She can barely keep her head up to look at me.

"Hypnotize, sort of. Control. I've never met anyone immune like you."

Her voice cools. "You took me away from everything I know and love because I can't be hypnotized?" She's monotone, dead in my arms. She doesn't understand that she's the first human, first anything that's made me _feel_ in a very long time. It's important, it's something to keep living for. All I have is experience, and she undermines all of it.

I don't want to give her up.

But she's withdrawing from me, folding back into herself. To her, I'm a monster. It shouldn't matter to me what she thinks or feels, but somehow it does. She's a young, insolent little girl, but she's also strange, stubborn and so different that I've become entangled with her.

It makes me want to lay her down, taste her again, then suck her dry so whatever I find so intriguing about her, whatever power she has over me is gone. Instead, I lay her limp body down, tell her to get some rest. I look back at her as I leave the room, but she turns her head away, those silent tears running down her face again.

I lock the door behind me, head to the kitchen for no real reason other than to walk away from her room. Though I don't eat, it's fully stocked for Mary, and to keep up appearances. I open a random cabinet, take out a glass and hurl it against the opposing wall before I know what I'm doing. The glass shatters like a clap of thunder, sending shards in all directions. Not satisfied, I throw three more before Mary appears, a frown emphasizing her stern mouth.

"This is unusual, Eric," she says, her words mild.

"I'm not in the mood, Mary." My voice is sharper, more savage than I expect it to be.

She ignores me. "Then you shouldn't have taken her."

"I had no choice." It's a lie. I know it.

Mary stands squarely in front of me, looks into my eyes with her own intelligent, dark gaze.

"Yes, you did. You still do. Now make it." She walks away without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

When I wake early the next evening, it's with a realization. I get what I want. I didn't want to die, and so I kept living, albeit in a changed form. I've craved women, blood, material possessions over the years, and eventually, they've all been mine. To be denied something is unheard of for me, and I can't possess Elise. She doesn't even want me, doesn't crave me like so many others have. She's an enigma, a human beyond my control, beyond my ability to spin new memories, to erase my existence in her mind. I've effectively killed her anyway, by telling her that vampires have that power.

I push the sheets that cover me back from my body, angry over her disinterest, the source of her power. She knows this, laughs at it, though she's not even here with me. The idea of her cool gaze is an in insult, a taunt that makes my fingers tighten, dig into the bed under me. I rise, naked, and imagine her eyes running over my body like I'm a model for an art class; neutral, interested as a doctor examining a patient. My height doesn't intimidate her; she just stares up at me, bored. I shake my head, vanquish her from my mind and stand in front of the full-length mirror that stands across from my bed, taking in my own image. My hair is rumpled, so the brush on my nightstand is quickly run through it, returning it to its normal silk texture. I stare at the reflection of my body, unchanged for over 1,000 years. It's muscled, but not bulky, slim, but not skinny. I'm well built, a body fit to be a warrior, now used for nothing, really. To catch humans, an unfair advantage that irks me; what's the point of my power, if not to use it on something worthy? My reflection looks back at me, a reflection of my question. I examine my face, watch my own eyes and know that I am handsome, if not traditionally so. I tell myself I don't care what any human thinks, especially this one, though I choose to dress up today, just the same. I dress quickly, pulling on black slacks and a white shirt. Their expensive materiel is fluid, soothing against my skin. I dab cologne on my neck and open the door to leave; as I do, Mary's scent washes over me. She stands just outside my door, waiting.

"Yes?" I ask, already knowing what she's come to lecture me about.

"What did you do to her?" Her features are tight, strained. She's trying to keep her temper, something I've never seen her lose.

"What do you mean?" I'm already tired of the conversation, but I humor her, let her question me. Her anger makes me curious.

"Elise," she hisses, the 's' sharp enough to draw blood. "She can barely move from that bed--I don't think she's eaten in days."

"I'm giving her food," I say, my words bland. "Aren't I?" It's not my fault she's being immature, striking back at me through hunger.

"You captured a woman you can't break. Now, do what you have to, but leave me out of it." She turns her back on me, walks away pretending to be confident, but I can hear her heart, smell her adrenaline.

I go to Elise's room, open the door to see her sprawled on the floor in sweatpants and a tank top that show more of her skin. She looks up at me expectantly, her hair rippling down her back as she tilts her head.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?" She tells me it's comfortable, gives me a shaky smile. I enter the room fully, lean on the bedpost and take a closer look at her; I her skin is pale, almost translucent, dark circles bleeding out from under her eyes. She's leaning, resting on the bureau, shaking slightly. She blinks hard a few times, like she's having trouble staying awake.

I ask her if she's starting to go insane. She giggles, calls me silly; I'm agape at her behavior, but I just cross my arms and change the subject. She's lost weight since she's been here, but the clothes still fit. I wonder aloud why she's wearing such casual clothing in the middle of the day.

"Why?" She responds, raising a dark eyebrow, voice dry as sand. "Am I going somewhere special?" I laugh outright at this.

"Listen," she says, palms spread, telling me she comes in peace. I let her speak. She tells me, with that same grin plastered across her face, that she's giving me a second chance to let her go.

My lips turn up at the corners, mirror the false grin that's plastered across her face. "You are?"

She nods, the smile falls off her face and her eyes squint into slits. "Yup."

"Well," the syllables widen, elastic in my vocal chords, emulating the motion of thinking her words over. "I regretfully decline your offer." I say, formally, like she's a patron at a bank, cashing in on her life. She twitches, her hands clamping at her sides. I feel the anger pulse through her and I hold myself back, push my excitement down. I think I smell that clear, distinct sheen of blood, but it's so light, a droplet in an ocean. I must be imagining it. But she's up to something, I can smell it.

"If you have a downfall," she spits out between teeth clenched so hard I expect them to crack, "It's your experience. It makes you underestimate things. And people."

"I don't think I'm missing anything."

"Oh, that's right. You're old, you're smart, there's nothing new." She scowls at me. A wave of emotion passes through her so hard she doubles up, squeezes her eyes shut and tremors before she opens them again, coated with a wall of liquid she fights to keep from falling. Something flashes in those eyes, there, gone, flickering like a house with bad wiring, so I can't even catch it, turn it over and examine it. She pulls something out, something shiny and small, rectangular, holds it over her wrist, and I understand.

"I told you," she says, dragging the object, a razor, over her wrist slowly, so it takes a long, deep path up her arm until it reaches the crease of her elbow, "You won't have me."

I hear her, but understanding is gone from my mind when the sight, then the smell of her blood hits me in the face with the force of a brick wall. The wound starts dripping rivers, currents that splash to the ground, in drips that are magnified in my ears so they're really landmines going off. The blood turns into a river and I want to bathe in it, drink it so she coats me inside and out. My muscles tense, my mouth opens and my teeth beg to be put to use. I take a step forward, but she stops me dead in my tracks.

"If you drink from me now, if you kill me, you're no better than Gray. And you know it." I can't look at her, can't watch her blood go to waste so I look up, glue my eyes to the ceiling, dig my nails into the bedpost and try not to breathe.

"Why are you doing this?" I question the ceiling.

"I'm getting tired of waiting to be consumed by you. Let me go or I'll die."

"I've already killed you," I say, coldly. She can't know that I care, or she'll kill herself trying to gain leverage. "I've told you too much, and if I let you go, a vampire--any vampire would be free to kill you. And I know they would." I scrub a hand across my face, plug my nose for a second, but her blood is everywhere, on everything.

I look down at her, watch as she begins to understand that there is no life for her anymore, anywhere. Elise switches the razor to her other hand, runs it over her unmarked arm, spilling fresh blood into the air. The liquid pools around her like wet paint, the perfect color red.

"Look at it," She commands, though my eyes don't move away. "Look at me, you coward." It's my turn to clench my teeth, to force myself to play her game. My eyes dilate when I take in the full effect of her injuries and spilled blood. I kill a growl in my throat, try to keep my expression blank and look at her, as she asks.

"This is what you've done." She puts her palms on the floor next to her, dying them red, making them sticky slick. "You're responsible for this, for killing me. I just beat you to the punch." She reaches up for me, the image of a child grasping for its parent. She's not my blood, but I want hers. I want to take her dripping hands, a shock against her clothes and skin, and lick them dry. I kneel, knocking her fingers against my shirt, smearing her blood onto it like a finger painting. She corrects her course, her palms sliding into mine so they're intertwined. I jerk mine away, hold her by the shoulders so hard I leave marks, ten easy plum bruises, arranged in a half-circle.

"My blood's on your hands," she says, barely focusing on my face. "Enjoy." I slide my hands down her shoulders, leaving trails on her skin. Her body sags against me like a balloon that's been left for days, air leaking slowly from it. Her hand stretches limply when I take it into mine again and bring it to my lips. Every fiber of my being tells me to bite down, to join to her so we're one until she's gone and I'm left. But when we connect, when I lean over her gushing wrist and she covers my mouth with her warmth, a sickening shade of lipstick against my skin, I feel repulsion so thick I fight to stay sitting. I leave her open wrist with a kiss before pulling her into me, close, so our noses almost touch. She's getting chalky, her skin losing its color to meet me in the middle. My hand is on her cheek. I have to remind myself to make sure my touch is soft, gentle. She closes her eyes for a moment while I explore the terrain of her face, eyes, cheeks, nose, mouth, an echo of the way she touched me.

"I wanted you," I say, then let our lips touch, brush against each other, feather-light. I press harder and her still lips gain life under mine. "I want you more than anything else." I say the words into her mouth when we stop moving in and out and around so she can come up for air. She places one last, searing kiss on me before turning her head, letting herself collapse. Slowly, her heart slows down until it begins to trip over itself, missing beats, then becoming arrhythmic. Most of what should be inside of her, flowing fast, defying gravity, coats me, my clothes, but my reaction to the smell, my need, has disappeared. I brush my cheek against hers; she adjusts to the jostle, rubs back like a cat as I continue down to her neck. Once there, I make my decision. It's already been made for me, really. I collect myself, break through her skin and pull deeply, drawing out as much as I can with each swallow.

"What are you doing?" She asks, but I just press down harder, and this time, she doesn't fight, just sighs in ecstasy and lets her head tilt back, jaw slack. She tastes wild, her blood thick and strong as I imbibe. Her emotions are open to me, intense so I feel what she does, feel who she is. She's scared to death, angry at me, but resigned to her death. When I feel her begin to slip away, I withdraw, licking her blood off my teeth.

"I'm letting you go."


	5. Chapter 5

She breathes out, and the air sweeps across my neck like summer as it fades into fall. It halts, scuttling out in gusts, her alveoli releasing their last stores of air in a broken pattern that sends out an unbearable, choking rattle from her throat. I know what she's feeling as her body shuts itself down, though it happened to me over 1,000 years ago. I can still see death at my throat, feel its drowsy pull, and then the rumbling blackness that bled through me; it's pristine, untouched, unchanged, remembered perfectly after all this time.

Her head has fallen back, lolling on the muscles of her neck limply, allowing her hair to dance over the surface of the blood on the floor, creating paths and patterns with the curved tips. Her mouth is ringed blue, her skin and muscles pale, sallow, begging for air that's not coming. She had her arms around me, but now they're dead by her side, curled like sleeping animals. Her unseeing eyes are open, looking blankly at the ceiling, the light gone from her usually analytical gaze.

With the hand that isn't under her neck, I reach back to my own mouth and shove my teeth into my wrist, deep, so the skin is forced open, sending red streamers down my arm so I match Elise. But where she let allowed her blood to pour from her willingly, allowing her life to slip away, mine moves away from me in the hopes of giving life, of changing it so she becomes faster, hard as stone, a new creature with instincts like my own. I lay her down to make the angle less awkward; the disturbance sends a ripple through the blood around her, which has thickened to the consistency of jell-o. Her mouth is tight, lips clamped together so I have to wriggle my finger between her rigid lips and teeth before I can turn my wrist, let the trickling blood run over her teeth.

It slips around her mouth at first, dribbling down to her chin and off to the side into her hair where it's consumed, absorbed into her dark hair so it's invisible. Finally, my life trickles into her mouth, pools at the back of her throat, drowning her so I massage the skin of her throat until she swallows it down, reflexively.

And then, after she's had that first taste, something happens. A shockwave runs through her, a snap like a rubber band that snaps her head up, makes her arms and legs jerk straight out.

"Please," I whisper. Please come back to me. Take me into you, take me for what I am, what I have, what I'm trying to give. My fingers stay at her throat, massaging in small circles, making a tattoo pattern, helping the blood down when I feel her tongue snake out from her mouth and, lightly, delicately, trace my wound. Her hands, moving in a red white blur, encircle my arm and pull it closer to her mouth so it feels like I'm in a vice. She laps at the blood first, then bites with her omnivorous teeth, tearing skin and veins until she opens the artery and it sprays into her mouth, a fountain that she swallows greedily, with an intensity like my arm is the only anchor she has to stay attached to the ground. She looks into my eyes, scared, unable to control her own body, which is focused solely on draining the blood from my body.

"It's ok," I say, extending my legs out from under me so she can lay her head back on my arm. I smile down at her, watching the change happen, watching as she begins to fade away, blinking a few times, realizing she's getting weaker, that it's getting harder to see. Her eyelashes drift toward her cheek and I pull my hand away; she mews like a kitten, but I'm firm. She's had more than enough. I tell her I'll see her soon, and she goes still in my arms.

I stand, letting her lie on the floor, and take in the scene. She's gone, pale as I am, hair in a halo around her head, plastered to the floor. She's completely covered in blood that's clotting fast, making her hair and clothes stiff as the bristles of a broom. I pick her--_peel_ her up off the floor and bring her into the bathroom, where I strip off her now red sweatpants and my own clothes. The steam of the shower is heavy on my skin; I climb in, carrying Elise bridal style, and let the water run over her body so when it drips off it's the color of rust at first, then bright red. I take her body in, excited for her to rise, to be with me as what I am. For now, though, I try not to touch her, other than running my hands up and down her arms, legs, face and hair, trying to get her suicide off her.

After the water is shut off, after she's dried and clothed and looking, for all intents and purposes, dead, I make a phone call.

"Did you have fun?" Adam asks, instead of a normal greeting.

"Doing what?"

"Gray," He says, simply. The events of the day we were together, the day I killed Gray seem to have happened forever ago, an eternity of yesterdays.

"Yeah," I murmured, distracted. "Listen, can you do me a favor?"

***

When he takes Elise in, her shining, still wet hair, her delicate features and the smell of change that has taken hold of her on a cellular level, transforming everything it touches, Aaron lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

"I can't believe you got the cop," he says, shaking his head at me.

"This wasn't what I had in mind, believe me." I tell him the story of her capture, her stubborn, unchangeable mind.

"She slit her wrists in front of you?" Aaron's eyes go wide. "Damn," he says, a tinge of interest creeping into his voice. "She's going to make one interesting vampire."

"Yeah, well, she's mine," I say, growling with protection.

"Loud and clear." His eyes are still on her. "So, Eric, tell me why I'm here."

I tell him to follow me, picking her up on my way out. She's light in my arms, a baby to a parent. When we get outside, I open the garage and point.

"Great," Eric mutters, going into the dark to emerge with an ornate wooden coffin. He drags it out and I hand him a shovel. When we get to a clear patch, I climb inside the coffin, arranging Elise so I'm wrapped around her.

"Night," Eric says, beginning to dig. Half an hour later, we're in the ground, the heavy sound of dirt hitting the top of the coffin.

***

When I open my eyes the next night, it's because a body is squirming next to mine. I tighten my grip around Elise and tell her not to move, to stay still for a few minutes. I breathe in her scent and smell myself on her skin. She's made from me, and a fierce instinct awakens; I am her maker, and she is mine.

"What happ--" she asks, not remembering the events of yesterday. I let a shhh noise slip from between my teeth to soothe her, and her muscles relax underneath me.

"We're in the ground." She tenses again when she realizes it's true, slams her hand into the side of the coffin and begins to rear up against me.

"Relax," I command, running my fingers up and down her arm. She shudders at my touch, sighs dreamily. But then she's distracted, by what I'm not sure; she gasps, though she has no reason to breathe, and tells me she needs to get out, to get into the air, away from this box. I tell her to wrap herself around me, to close her eyes and mouth before moving her up onto my hips so she can wrap her legs around me.

She nods, distracted by the movement. I open the coffin, push savagely out while a torrent of dirt filters through the space I've made. She nuzzles into my chest, though not before gaping at the feeling of the dirt against her.

I pull us out, stand up and she looks up to the sky while I examine her. She's beautiful, absorbing, and for once, not fighting me.

"Wow," she breathes, staring at the stars above us. I say her name gently, and she stares at me, eyes wide with understanding. She tells me that this is amazing, then slides off of me, steps back and I laugh at the dirt in her hair before raking my nails through it, sending dust flying. She smiles at my touch, closes her eyes and tells me she feels like she's on ecstasy, that there's too much going on and that it's all so beautiful.

"You've changed me." Her hand touches my face, and a delighted smile tugs at her lips. I tell her yes, take one of her fingers in my mouth and suck gently, enjoying the reaction that wreaks havoc on her balance.

"Why?"

"I couldn't let you die." It's simple. It's the truth. I just didn't expect it. I lean in to kiss her and she responds readily, excited. I kiss her jaw, lick down her neck and whisper that I couldn't kill her.

"So I could leave you if I wanted?"

Internally, I groan that she carried her rebellious nature over to the supernatural side. But I tell her no, I won't keep her here with me if she doesn't want my company. She tells me I'm not going anywhere, and I smile into her neck before licking it again, resuming my exploration. I kiss between her shoulder and neck; she draws a ragged breath and her hand covers her mouth. I push back her hair, kiss her again and watch as she explores her fangs with a finger. They're dainty, sharp; I move her hand away and our mouths connect, my teeth elongating so I cut her lip slightly, then lick the blood that wells there.

"You need to feed," I say, guiding her head gently down toward my neck. "From me, first." She hesitates a moment before testing my skin, latching on and releasing, sucking gently while my own eyes roll back in pleasure. She stops, after a few minutes, pulls back and watches the bite mark on my neck fade.

"Lets get out of here," I say, offering my hand. She takes it, then steps forward so we're walking together, without a leader.

"Always so stubborn," I say, and laugh. She joins with me, and the air carries the peals away, sharing them with everything around us.


End file.
